


clasp them until the blood flows

by sleepywreck



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepywreck/pseuds/sleepywreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the Whalers cannot hide from this all consuming force.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clasp them until the blood flows

A whaler's mask cuts an intimidating figure if you see it out of the corner of your eye. Or if it's a shadow in your window. Sometimes it's the whooshing noise in the dark. Or maybe a creak of leather as it turns towards you. Beaked messengers of death.

Like doctors, they wear masks to protect themselves of the plague, to become a _part of_ death masquerade. But alas, one cannot wear a mask forever.

* * *

 

The first one is Aedan. It's just the cough, at the beginning. Just some itchiness at the back of his throat. It was always cold in the abandoned bones of commercial district. Someone came down with a cold every few weeks. It doesn't affect Aedan's missions, so he does not gave it much attention.

A month down the road, the cough is harsh and wracking his frame every few minutes. The cold months always rendered a few of them feverish, but Aedan has always been more resistant than others. He is relieved of missions, moved to makeshift medical to prevent spreading the infection and left to work through it with occasional company and a few books.

It is on his third day in isolation that he notices his hand coming up bloody from his face. He feels the wetness, sees the red, but all colour seems to bleed out of the world. His eyes are itchy and sensitive, his throat clams up, a slick ball of anxiety curls up around his voice-strings, producing a soft whine.

Aedan doesn't know how long he stares at the smears on his fingers. He can see the trembling, feel it crawling up his spine and doesn't know if it's fever or terror.

When he finally can move, he doesn't hesitate. Cleaning up, he takes his wristbow, collect his bolts, and puts on his mask. He's preparing for a mission but does not know what kind yet. His fingers slip and slide on the clasps around his forearms.

Aedan goes to Daud. He cannot see other options now.

When Daud looks up at him, after transversing and making sure they're alone, Aedan takes of his mask. He keeps his distance, only coming close enough for Daud to see his eyes. Aedan does not know if he imagines or if he sees the cold realisation swirling with fear in Daud's eyes, but it does not matter. He cannot- There is nowhere he can go.

Two hours later Aedan is deep in the bowels of their base. Next to the entrance to the sewers is an old mattress, not too dirty. Aedan looks at it, then slowly slides to his knees, on the springly surface instead of the cold wet floor. Daud loads up his wristbow.

For a second, their eyes meet and lock and then Daud himself slides to his knees. Beckoning Aedan closer, he palms the back of his head, flicking the hood down. His palm is warm and comforting. Aedan presses his face to Daud's shoulder and breathes. He smells leather and metal of his mask; he thinks he can sense the worn paper and ozone.

Next second, a bolt goes through his soft palate, into his brain, lodging into the top of his skull. The body, now limp and heavy, lists forward and sideways onto the mattress, blood blossoming into roses red like Delilah's.

Later Daud thinks it must have meant something.

They loose seven more whalers, before Corvo spares Daud.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my first ever Dishonored fanfic, with which I am extremely dissatisfied. I know, however, that if I don't put it out now, it will stay in the depths of my hard drive forever. So here, have it.  
> The title is taken from a quote I found randomly browsing goodreads. It goes like this: “Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.” - Joanne Harris. You can imagine what kind of character Daud is in my mind (and playthrough).  
> Come hang out at my [tumblr](http://sleepywreck.tumblr.com/).


End file.
